Outside the Garden

Now they work their way

through simple time released by clouds,

cluttered with unknown birds and debris.

No longer let themselves remember

sun-mottled leaves loose in that Tree

or the silence after they fell.

Busy stretching the light both ways;

gestures they made or should have made then

have all been swabbed away.

A few fearful animals have settled;

donkeys in the straw, cocks among the nettles

like green cries in the night.

Days smelling of thatch instead of sky

go all the way to the ground - passing

moments no longer separate, backlit, as they pass.

So far, so good. Innocence is out,

but they do have order. The sword between them

and the Garden glints, now a mere landmark.

Abel's sheep are white as thorns:

Cain hums to himself as he opens

like a wound the red, immaculate earth.